


untitled (no. 2)

by prowlish (valkyrie_fe)



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Present Tense, Twisted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 07:16:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valkyrie_fe/pseuds/prowlish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He promised Jazz he'd stop - but it's so hard to be good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	untitled (no. 2)

He promised Jazz he'd stop, but somewhere deep in his spark, Blaster is sure his friend knows. Jazz has a knack of knowing his friends better than any of them knew themselves, so he's sure Jazz knew even as he solicited that doomed promise that Blaster would go back. The gentlest caresses against his mind, the ones that echo of Iacon's gilded nightlife and an unspoken imploring, were enough to make him cave every time.

  


At least Blaster knows he's weak that way, knows that weakness is relied upon and used without hesitation, knows he's helpless even with all this knowledge. He knows he does this all for a radically changed bot, one whose face he hasn't seen in long vorns, and that he will continue to defy orders, to put them at risk, to hurt his best friends, because he is weak.

  


It still comes as a shock, though, when he's put in the brig the first time. Even if it hadn't, Blaster could not forget it -- the only time he remembers Jazz avoiding his gaze. Prowl had no trouble staring him down, nor with doling out more and more brig time each time he learns Blaster was out again. He knows the tactician isn't unsympathetic, just as he knows Jazz is  _too_  sympathetic, and that's why he involved Prowl in this at all, even so late in the game.

  


But the sidelong glances his allies lob at him prick at his circuits the most. Blaster tries not to care, but he wonders: what do they know? do they trust him? Some of them hold pity in their gaze, those few who know facts and not whispered rumor, but all Blaster sees is hostile optics.

  


There's a desparation that twists him up, as he sees the inches that separate him and his fellow Autobots; they are only inches, but they keep increasing -- inches become feet, become yards, become miles. Blaster could only ever love peace, love his music, love the bots around him. He could only ever be an Autobot and fight this war to its bitter end.

  


And he could only ever feel safe or at home in the arms of his enemy.

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow I got this from the prompt "safe/home." I'm not sure exactly what my brain did...


End file.
